Chapter 862

Zhang Zhang Juzheng, Chief Architect of the Emperor Wanli Reforms, Imperial Tutor, Grand Tutor of Great Ming, Left Pillar State, Marquis of Yicheng, Grand Secretary of the Zhang Wenyuan Pavilion, and Minister of Personnel, initially held an extremely pessimistic view of the Emperor Wanli Reforms; what Gao Gong, Yang Bo, Wang Wang Chonggu, Ge Ge Shouli, and Lu Lu Shusheng said held considerable merit.

Since ancient times, no reform has ended well, and all inevitably ended in the tragic fate of "the man dies, the policy dies"; the reasons are intricate and hard to articulate, but from historical experience and lessons, those who advised him against reform were right.

Reforms were divided into self-strengthening reforms and decline-type reforms.

Self-strengthening reforms occur when the state confronts intractable, regime-threatening contradictions, seeking salvation and revival through self-redemption—but often lack capable successors to ensure reform's success, ultimately leading to failure.

This was especially evident in the New Laws of the Two Song dynasties: the emperor initiated renewal, but upon his death, the empress dowager intervened, reinstated conservatives, and the Song realm collapsed under constant, flip-flopping policy reversals.

Decline-type reforms are essentially loot distribution: a new emperor, to consolidate his position and power, seizes the legacy of his ancestors through a plundering redistribution, completing reform—such reforms usually succeed, because everyone gladly accepts their share.

For example, during the Renxuan era, vast tracts of land were abandoned and civil culture promoted while military affairs declined; yet Emperor Emperor Xuande, even by the ninth year of Emperor Xuande, still did not abandon maritime trade, and when Zheng He died on the seventh voyage, Emperor Xuande found Wang Jinghong as his successor and successfully completed the mission to the South Seas in the ninth year of Emperor Xuande.

Maritime trade is the money bag; without money, you cannot leverage economic strength to bolster military power—without funds or grain, mere slogans look hollow.

Unfortunately, by the During Zhengtong era, with a young emperor and a shaky regime, the legacy of Emperor Hongwu and Yongle was entirely gone.

The loot-distribution, decline-type reform was even more evident during the reign of Emperor Xiaozong.

During Xiaozong's reign, even land and land taxes were abandoned, reducing the nation's total arable land to four million hectares—four hundred million mu. Had Xiaozong gained something in return—say, securing open seas by conceding land taxes—it might have counted as success; but he gained nothing.

Self-strengthening and decline-type reforms alternated, exhibiting a spiral-upward character within contradiction.

Even knowing the inevitable failure, Zhang Zhang Juzheng still acted—acting might lose, but not acting meant certain death.

A court with annual revenues of five to six million taels of silver, whose entire budget could only cover three months, and which had repeatedly slashed border troops' pay and imperial stipends—without reform, Great Ming would starve to death.

Some think: why must it be me? Others think: why not me?

Some are alive but already dead; some are dead but live forever.

Zhu Zhu Yijun sat aboard the express train on the imperial road, gazing at the endless rows of peasant homes, his heart filled with deep emotion; the whistle of the Princess Shengping steam engine echoed across heaven and earth, startling flocks of sparrows. As spring warmed and flowers bloomed, these locust-eating sparrows grew active; farmers cracked whips in fields, driving oxen to till the soil.

At first, the Ge Wu Academy's scholars deemed sparrows pests that stole grain—a common farmer's prejudice. Later, after extensive sampling and deep investigation, they obtained sparrow chicks from multiple northern regions of Great Ming, dissected them, and discovered their diet: seventy percent locusts, ten percent aphids, ten percent moths, and only one percent grain.

This astonished the Ge Wu scholars: this tiny creature was so formidable—producing three or four broods a year, each laying five or six eggs, one brood consuming over twenty thousand insects. Long-term observation revealed: give sparrows a handful of grain, and they eliminate pests that yield five handfuls more grain.

The Ge Wu Academy ultimately concluded: leave them alone—nature suffices. Sparrows fly everywhere; when food is scarce, they starve; when abundant, they multiply. Non-interference is the best interference.

This underscores the importance of "acting with sincerity"—without deep observation, you might wrongly believe sparrows compete with humans for grain.

Of course, to some opinion-vaults, studying sparrows and studying afforestation on the Loess Plateau were both wasteful expenditures—better to halt progress and wait for Great Ming's people.

That money should go into the Dinghai Education System; the treasury might grow richer, but not this wastefulness—it's sheer gluttony.

Such criticism was common; Zhu Zhu Yijun never responded, and the Gewu scholars couldn't be bothered to engage them—once the scholars replied, the critics would claim victory.

According to the lowly Confucians' scoring, the efforts of Pan Pan Jixun and others would be distorted.

Without properly managing the Yellow River, this muddy dragon's every tail-swing brings death and ruin; without planting grasses and stabilizing soil, afforestation is impossible, and the Loess Plateau's vegetation cannot recover. The "confining water to flush sand" method treats symptoms; planting trees treats the root.

The lowly Confucians saw poor laborers as less than human; they upheld "equality above self, strict hierarchy below self"—some scholar-officials didn't even regard village elders and gentry as human.

The train finally entered Tianjin, directly reaching Tianjin Tanggugang; the direct line from Tianjin Tanggu to the capital was built to facilitate military logistics.

Even with ice periods, nine-tenths of military supplies for the Korean campaign were transported by sea—this was one reason Great Ming could cross the sea to strike; maritime technology's development supported Great Ming's complete eradication of the Japanese pirates threat.

When Zhu Zhu Yijun arrived at Tianjin Tanggugang, it was the port's opening day; the ice of the Bohaiwan had fully melted, sails floating like white clouds on the sea, fishing boats setting out, leaving long white wakes behind them, seabirds circling the masts.

The Grand Coordinator of Great Ming, Zhao Meng, assumed all defenses of the Jiaolao Terrace and began a ground-to-ground inspection, as if checking every pillar—this was the emperor's public itinerary; if rebels wished to assassinate the emperor, the Grand Secretary, or the Grand General, this was their best chance.

Zhao Meng found no anomalies; no gunpowder was hidden in unseen corners.

Zhao Meng had conducted such large-scale security operations many times; even with vast experience, he remained utterly vigilant—His Majesty had just raised pay for beacon tower guards and coastal inspectors, and most of the Embroidered Uniform Guards came from these scouts; if they failed to protect His Majesty, who would raise their pay later?

Zhao Meng had handled security for such large-scale events many times; even though experienced, he remained utterly vigilant—His Majesty had just increased pay for the beacon station marquises and coastal patrol inspectors, and most of the Embroidered Uniform Guards were drawn from these scouts; if they failed to protect His Majesty, who would ever give them raises again?

At dawn the next day, heaven cooperated: the morning mist over the Bohaiwan lifted, revealing a fish-belly white sky, golden rays of dawn scattering across the glittering sea. At the horizon, a row of tiny black dots appeared—masts of Great Ming warships. As the morning fog gradually cleared, the black dots revealed their majestic outlines.

The next morning, heaven was kind: as the sea fog first lifted over the Bohaiwan, the horizon turned pale with dawn, and golden rays of morning light scattered across the glittering waves. At the meeting point of sea and sky, a row of tiny black dots emerged—each a mast of a Great Ming warship. As the morning mist gradually cleared, these black dots slowly revealed their majestic silhouettes.

On the second day of the third month, Great Ming's army had already reached Lüshun, stayed several days at Lüshun Port; before meeting the emperor, soldiers must bathe and change clothes—mainly to clean the ships inside and out, since Great Ming's army had received no notice whether His Majesty would board to inspect.

On the second day of the third month, the Great Ming army had already arrived at Lüshun, where it remained for several days. Before meeting His Majesty, one must bathe and change clothes—mainly to clean the ships, inside and out, for the Great Ming army had received no notification whether His Majesty would board to inspect.

The Ministry of Rites designed a ceremonial uniform for every soldier, tailored to each man's height and weight; the design was approved by the emperor's vermilion annotation and issued to the entire army: "To return in triumph, wear new clothes—as if celebrating the New Year!"

Great Ming's Capital Troops had entered the full firearms era; dressing soldiers in handsome uniforms was a way to unify morale, just like the dragon banners, three-inch dragon seals, drums, and horns—symbols and emblems of morale.

Thus, the Ministry of Rites took this seriously, citing classics and exhausting its intellect to design the new uniform, winning the emperor's high praise.

Clothing itself carries cultural and civilizational symbols; the issuance of Great Ming's new uniforms cost nearly 400,000 taels from the imperial treasury, signifying the emperor's resolve to strengthen the military.

For Great Ming's soldiers, this was still unfamiliar; most believed: His Majesty must be planning rebellion—why else such favor?

Giving a single new uniform made soldiers deeply grateful for the emperor's grace—not an exaggeration; even Qi Qi Jiguang fully endorsed the saying: "The skilled warrior bears the highest punishment."

This saying came from Mencius: war inevitably kills; the skilled warrior may please his lord by winning battles, yet he wounds and destroys lives—thus, one who leads men to devour human flesh must bear the highest punishment.

Is winning battles impressive? Isn't he still a butcher who slaughters countless lives?

Qi Qi Jiguang himself disliked war; he preferred having no battlefield at all rather than seeing Great Ming engulfed in smoke and fire. But in the past, what crushed him was this: Great Ming was full of places where he could fight—yet he could not fight.

"The skilled warrior bears the highest punishment" was part of benevolent governance; under this benevolent wind, winning battles ceased to be righteous—and became, in a sense, correct.

Thus, the returning soldiers were stunned by this unprecedented honor.

His Majesty not only granted generous rewards and established a Temple of the Loyal and Martyred for fallen soldiers, but also published nationwide the Great Ming Eastern Expedition Record and the Record of Eastern Expedition Heroes, writing books for ordinary people; His Majesty personally came to Tianjin to welcome the returning troops—and now issued ceremonial uniforms.

This must be rebellion! Otherwise, it makes no sense!

The new ceremonial uniforms of the Capital Troops were ancestral precedent, said Minister of Rites Shen Li in response to censors and Six Boards' remonstrators; "ancestral precedent" nearly choked the censors.

The Ministry of Rites constantly invoked "ancestral precedent," making censors feel like rebels—as if questioning the very foundation of Great Ming.

The censors never meant that; the issue was simply obscure—it had happened 170 years ago. Great Ming's army had worn no uniforms for 170 years, long forgotten as dormant text—until the Ministry of Rites dug it up.

This is why the bureaucracy favors "don't let specialists manage what they're good at"—because once specialists manage, they seize power.

In Emperor Hongwu's reign, soldiers wore the "mandarin duck battle jacket": in the first year of Emperor Hongwu, orders mandated garments with contrasting inner and outer colors, called "mandarin duck battle jackets," and in the twenty-first and twenty-sixth years, standards were set for flag-bearers, guard soldiers, strongmen, and cavalry jackets.

The "mandarin duck battle jacket" was a padded jacket, knee-length, narrow-sleeved, stuffed with cotton—a knee-length, narrow-sleeved jacket; cavalry wore front-opening coats for ease of riding.

Since it was ancestral precedent, the Ministry of Rites designed the new ceremonial uniform with special care; after consulting the emperor's opinion, they established standards: retain the ancestral length (knee-length), narrow sleeves, but redesign for the new Emperor Wanli Reform context.

For example, the Six Armor Divine Helmet's feather plume became a wide-brimmed hat; the "flying saucer hat" was all-iron—producing one cost enough to outfit a whole uniform. To achieve the goal while saving money, the wide brim, combined with the army's universal practice of shaved heads, gave soldiers a sharp, spirited look.

The sash symbolized honor, traditionally distinguished by color and pattern.

The Ministry of Rites' first design featured a large sash like a peacock's tail; the emperor found it cumbersome—five-colored sashes hanging from the back resembled a "butt curtain" and hindered movement, clashing with the army's swift, decisive style.

The Ministry repeatedly submitted revised proposals; eventually, among options of large sash, waist sash, rear sash, side sash, they chose shoulder sashes—no Great Ming soldier had a slumped shoulder; wearing shoulder sashes made them radiate vigor.

The knee-length, narrow-sleeved design remained unchanged, but fabric switched to fine-spun wool; fine-spun wool had one flaw: it was expensive, even usable as currency like silk—but otherwise, all advantages: crisp silhouette, easy dyeing, true colors, wrinkle-resistant, durable.

A fine-spun wool greatcoat made in the second year of Emperor Wanli could still be worn in the seventeenth year of Emperor Wanli.

Black trousers and black leather boots created a somber, martial aura. After multiple consultations between the Ministry of Rites and the emperor, the ceremonial uniform's design was finalized and mass-produced; the first to try it on was the emperor himself.

Zhu Zhu Yijun tried two styles; he found it hard to choose—both looked good. Since the Capital Troops and Navy differed, he let soldiers choose for themselves.

(Great Ming's new ceremonial uniform: welcome all Ministers of Rites to submit images—see if a better design exists.)

One censor cautiously reminded His Majesty: these uniforms are too expensive. Officers could afford them, but issuing one to every soldier might bankrupt the treasury? One uniform costs two taels—why not just issue silver?

Zhu Zhu Yijun's vermilion reply: silver will be issued, and uniforms will be issued too—I have money, and I want to re-equip my soldiers!

Ships began slowly docking; countless vessels carried returning warriors, bathed and changed, washed clean of blood—but unable to wash away the grim aura of battle.

The port was already packed with people; rumors of the emperor's descent to greet troops had spread since the year's start; three days ago, news that the victorious eastern expeditionary army had reached Lüshun Port reached Tianjin.

Tianjin's people spontaneously flooded the docks; merchants closed shops, students suspended classes, even reclusive noblewomen, accompanied by family, squeezed onto temporary viewing platforms, gazing seaward.

Vendors weaved through crowds, selling steaming buns and newly brewed rice wine; the air carried a unique blend of food aroma and sea salt.

"Look! It's the Youlong!" a boy perched on his father's shoulders shouted, pointing at the sea; the crowd stirred, everyone tiptoeing, necks stretched toward the water.

The fast-sailing Youlong appeared fully on the sea; its massive sails obscured the hull. As sails lowered, the 33-zhang hull emerged. Tianjin's people saw the Youlong every October, yet each time, they marveled at this oceanic leviathan—this was Great Ming's Navy.

On the Youlong flew a large banner: red field, gold border, embroidered with a coiled dragon, snapping in the sea wind. Below the pole, rows of soldiers in new ceremonial uniforms stood in perfect formation—Great Ming's military splendor shone with heavenly majesty, fulfilling Qi Qi Jiguang's promise to the emperor.

He had kept it, just as His Majesty kept his promise: steel spears and iron horses, swallowing ten thousand miles like a tiger.

Thirty-six temporary drum towers on the port erupted with thunderous drumming; thirty-six ox-hide drums struck simultaneously, waves of sound rolling like thunder across the sea, sweeping through the crowd. Salute cannons began firing in rapid succession—eighteen shots each, repeated eighteen times.

Soon, drumming echoed from the sea; warships fired salute cannons—deafening booms answered the land-based drums and cannons. Birds perched on masts startled into flight, tracing chaotic paths across the sky.

Zhu Zhu Yijun watched the fast-sailing vessel and five-masted ocean-going ships arrive from the Guanchao Pavilion, then descended and walked toward the port.

Shen Li tried to stop him—according to ritual, the emperor should wait in the octagonal pavilion at Jiaolao Terrace for the general to pay homage. But His Majesty ignored protocol entirely, heading straight for the port.

Empress Wang Yao, unbothered by His Majesty's breach of decorum, was no Empress Dowager Li—who scolded him for walking wrong. She followed him to the port; her attire matched his, except she wore no shoulder sash or merit badge—she was no soldier, but she was His Majesty's wife.

Great Ming's empress accompanied the emperor to the imperial tombs in the Western Hills for ancestral rites, walking with him to the tomb's entrance. The empress, mother of all under heaven, was the emperor's lawful wife, distinct from concubines—she must accompany him at major ceremonies.

Of course, if the emperor and empress were estranged, he could simply say: "Her imperial body is unwell."

The emperor did not go to Jiaolao Terrace but went straight to the port—this violated ritual, yet Shen Li could not correct him. His Majesty's army stood before him; whatever His Majesty said became ritual—even heaven's lord himself would agree.

This descent-to-greet ceremony was unprecedented in Great Ming; better to let His Majesty do it directly—henceforth, this would become ancestral precedent. Whoever objected? Let them speak to His Majesty!

Zhu Zhu Yijun did not wait at Jiaolao Terrace because those disembarking from the Youlong were not Qi Qi Jiguang, Li Li Rusong, or Ma Lin—but individual boxes covered in coiled-dragon flags: the ashes of fallen soldiers from this campaign.

The best ships carried the fallen—children of parents, parents of children—who marched far for Great Ming's sake and never returned.

The dead are honored above all; Great Ming reveres death over life. All men must die—some heavier than Taishan, some lighter than a feather.

Zhu Zhu Yijun did not go to the Suburban Labor Platform to wait, because those disembarking from the Youlong were not Qi Qi Jiguang, Li Li Rusong, Ma Lin, or others, but rather individual coffins draped in dragon-emblazoned banners—these were the ashes of soldiers who had fallen in this campaign.

Shen Li immediately ordered his deputy ministers to alter plans; as a professional Minister of Rites, he adapted swiftly—the Temple of Ritual's musicians shifted from stirring tunes to solemn dirges.

The emperor, clad in new ceremonial uniform, strode with imperial dignity to the pier. Soldiers stood in formation; according to protocol, they would walk to Tianjin Tanggu Station, board the train, and be buried in the Northern Camp Temple of the Loyal and Martyred.

The sudden arrival of the emperor, empress, and crown prince left soldiers stunned; they stood frozen in place.

Zhu Zhu Yijun walked before the boxes, each containing a soldier's ashes. At sea, transporting bodies back to Great Ming was too distant; burial on foreign soil meant the soul could not return home—ashes became the only option.

The emperor's hand rested on the coiled-dragon flag. The dirge, under the Temple of Ritual's direction, ceased. Drums, horns, and clamor faded. Only the wind rustled the banners against the emperor's face.

Zhu Zhu Yijun remained silent for a long time. Then, softly, he spoke: "Home. You're home."

The sudden arrival of the Emperor, Empress, and Crown Prince left the soldiers stunned, standing frozen in place.

Zhu Zhu Yijun walked up to these wooden boxes, passing each one; every box held the ashes of a soldier. At sea, transporting corpses back to Great Ming was too distant, so burial on site was the only option for those who died far from home—ashes became the sole means to return their remains to their ancestral land.

The Emperor of Great Ming placed his hand upon the dragon banner; the funeral music ceased at the direction of the Court of Music, and the drumbeats, horn calls, and clamor gradually faded. The sea breeze brushed the Emperor's cheeks, leaving only the rustling of the banners in the wind.

Zhu Zhu Yijun remained silent for a long time; after much while, he finally spoke: "Home. Home."

He was eloquent; even Zhang Zhang Juzheng sometimes could not outargue him. He could speak in polished phrases, with countless words longing to be spoken—but each time he tried to speak, in the end only these words came out: "Let's go home."

For the benefit of Great Ming, are you willing to sacrifice your personal interests—even your life?

These soldiers gave the answer.

On this land of Great Ming, there has never been a shortage of such backbone. They rushed forward one after another, disregarding their own safety—they are the pillars holding up this realm, ensuring peace and prosperity.

"Father, I wish to lead the troops back to camp to bury the loyal and brave martyrs." As the eldest son and de facto Crown Prince, the nine-year-old Zhu Zhu Changzhi suddenly understood why His Majesty always held such deep affection for the soldiers.

Uncontrolled violence is banditry, but soldiers who report to the Son of Heaven and save the common folk deserve the respect of His Majesty, the ministers, and all the people of the realm—they are the most worthy of reverence.

Wang Yao glanced at Zhu Zhu Changzhi in surprise. This was not something she had taught him. Zhu Zhu Changzhi had no need to compete for favor; what startled her was that though she had endlessly lectured him on what it meant to be magnanimous, to care for the world, after a thousand words and ten thousand phrases, Zhu Zhu Changzhi had felt little true resonance.

But today, he stepped forward voluntarily to welcome the heroic spirits home on his father's behalf.

His father was too occupied to be everywhere—someone had to greet the returning army and oversee the burial of the martyrs. Zhu Zhu Changzhi was the most suitable person present.

On this day, the still-young Zhu Zhu Changzhi understood what it meant to bear the weight of the sun and moon, the legacy entrusted by ancestors. His father had shouldered the sun and moon at age ten; he was nine now, his slender shoulders too weak to bear the realm—but he had learned to ease his father's burdens and alleviate Great Ming's troubles.

Zhu Zhu Changzhi did not grow into a naturally noble soul, set apart from common men by heaven's design; instead, under his father's example and instruction, he gradually matured.

Zhang Zhang Juzheng stared at the Crown Prince in shock—not only he, but Wang Wang Chonggu, Zhang Zhang Xueyan, Shen Li, Ceng Ceng Shengwu, Wang Daoqun, Lu Lu Guangzu, and the other ministers—all wore expressions of astonishment. These were seasoned old foxes of the Zhao Wenhua Hall, men who never flinched even as mountains collapsed before them.

Emotion showed on their faces because it was truly hard to conceal anymore.

It was hard to hide his emotions.

The Crown Prince was accompanied by a one-eyed man—a beggar he had taken from the relief home, named Qian Qian Zhizhong. At first, the ministers thought His Majesty was crafting a public image of the Crown Prince as a compassionate patron of the poor. But now it seemed the Crown Prince's class identification had gone awry—he appeared to have followed his father down a crooked path.

As the apex of the ruling class, the Crown Prince identified more deeply with the suffering masses.

"Is it not allowed?" Zhu Zhu Changzhi asked, wondering if his proposal violated ritual propriety.

Zhu Zhu Yijun nodded. "Of course not. Take the troops home and bury our martyrs who have returned from afar. Remember this day—your choice, your decision."

"Your servant obeys." Sometimes Zhu Zhu Changzhi did not understand his father's deeper meaning, but he chose to remember first—he would understand when he grew older.

Qi Qi Jiguang had just led his troops ashore when he saw the Emperor's imperial banner. He was surprised—His Majesty still refused to follow protocol, appearing early at the harbor. He hurried his officers to the dock and saw the Crown Prince Zhu Zhu Changzhi leading troops away from the port.

"Your servants pay homage to His Majesty. May Your Majesty live ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand ten thousand years!" Qi Qi Jiguang led the officers in salute.

Wherever the Emperor stands, there is the Suburban Labor Platform.

"Rise." Zhu Zhu Yijun stood straight, surveying the fresh ceremonial robes of the Beijing Garrison and the Navy. He was pleased. He gazed across the sea, where more fleets were arriving, and at the orderly ranks of soldiers on the harbor square. His eyes held complex emotion: satisfaction, but mostly pride—and a trace of a sentiment only he understood.

He knew better than anyone that in the original historical path, Great Ming's campaign in Korea had drained the empire's strength, yielding nothing in the end. Now, everything was different: this expedition had brought Great Ming rich rewards.

Zhu Zhu Yijun spotted Gao Qi, standing at the very back of the crowd. Today's heroes were the soldiers and generals—not this civil official. Qi Qi Jiguang had invited Gao Qi to walk beside him, but Gao Qi had ultimately taken his place at the rear of the officers.

It was unfortunate—a civil official stood out awkwardly amid the uniform attire.

"Gao Aiqing, step forward." Zhu Zhu Yijun smiled broadly. "The post of Right Vice Minister of Rites is vacant. Upon your return to the capital, assume it. You will serve as the head of the Ministry of Rites."

The Minister of Rites was Shen Li, but Shen Li was a Grand Secretary, stationed at the Zhang Wenyuan Pavilion. The Ministry of Rites indeed needed a chief official. Now, Gao Qi—formerly Director of Grand Honglu Temple, having led one mission to the Western Regions and another to Japan—was unquestionably the most qualified in ritual expertise.

"Your servant kowtows to thank His Majesty for this great grace." Gao Qi had never expected his first promotion to come during this suburban labor ceremony.

The generals had no objections—they had collectively petitioned to honor Gao Qi, for only when civil and military officials united could they ensure victory's fruits were not lost after the battle was won.

The awkwardness of being unable to eat.

Qi Qi Jiguang was somewhat worried, for His Majesty never concealed his prejudice against civil officials.

And these civil officials' actions had only deepened His Majesty's prejudice. During the final phase of Great Ming's campaign, the Yang Wei case and the Tian Zhu Yijun case erupted—these base Confucians had taken advantage of the generals' absence to bully His Majesty. They were clearly begging for death!

"Pay them!" Zhu Zhu Yijun waved his hand. Since the suburban labor ceremony had already fallen apart, he no longer cared about protocol—he followed his own rules.

Of course, one must speak of moral nobility, of serving the Son of Heaven and saving the common folk, of ideals—but one must also speak of money. His Majesty's custom was always to pay first; then, when he delivered his long speeches, the soldiers would listen, swayed by the silver.

Shen Li was helpless. Everything was in chaos! The meticulously planned suburban labor ceremony had been utterly ruined.